


The Dangerous Waters Affair

by selyndae



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selyndae/pseuds/selyndae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompts: Message in a bottle, Piano, Medallion</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dangerous Waters Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [svetlanacat4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/svetlanacat4/gifts).



****

The morning was _so_ hot... Or was it a dark and stormy night? Was that the sun beating down so relentlessly on his fair skin? Or was it cold, cruel moonlight, allowing eerie glimpses of phosphorous, gleaming mysteriously beneath rolling waves?

Thirst was making him delirious. Hours… days…weeks? So long. So…so… long…

Music…? He could hear _music._

As he relaxed, he found himself caught up in the intricate rhythms of the soft jazz. Tonight’s pianist was a hulking man of color whose superb command of the keys belied his beefy hands—the unexpected trickling notes dancing in a hypnotic, bluesy beat. The warmth of the smoke-filled club was soothing and particularly welcome tonight, especially after those last few missions—

But enough. This was not a night for shop talk. This was a night for...

Mmm yes, tonight… Leaning back in his chair, Illya smiled over at his companion as he relaxed amid the sounds and aromas of the room. Half lost in the evening’s entertainment, he could almost ignore the way the buxom waitress moved closer than was strictly needed in the crowded club. Her soft body blatantly offered hidden delights as she molded herself against him for an instant; the teasing fragrance of her perfume tickled lightly against his nostrils, even as the musky undertones of her heated breasts issued the age-old invitation.

He quirked his lips in response, catching her eye deliberately, before drifting his gaze back at his companion. The message was polite but clear; he wouldn’t be going home with the lovely woman tonight, but… if he was very lucky, he might be— 

 

Gasping, he spit brackish sea water from his mouth. Through half-closed eyes he studied his surroundings. The sunset had left behind a spectacular sky of vibrant oranges, fiery reds, and deep purples which blended into the ocean’s azure, indigo and deep violet shades.

Cold. So damned cold.

Now that nighttime had returned, he could no longer see the alarming expanse of the empty ocean. He could also no longer see if the ocean was quite as… empty. He’d seen those ominous fins off in the distance before dusk.

 

_Six Days Earlier…_

“Ah, yes…” There was nothing unusual about Waverly's tone, but the room seemed darker than usual. Solo and Kuryakin immediately realized someone else was in the room, hiding in the dim shadows. Instantly on their guard, they drew out their weapons.

“Sir…?” Solo tried to see the figure sitting in the back.

“Do put those away. There are other things more pressing at the moment.”

Weapons sheathed, they sat down in their usual spots as their chief pressed a button dimming the lights even further. He gave a short nod toward the back of the room.

“Gentlemen,” the man’s deep voice raised the hairs on the backs of their necks, the tone velvety and faintly sinister. “Alex tells me you’re the best in this business. The best is what we will need to stop this, _thing_ , which threatens the very core of our civilization.

“You no doubt think me melodramatic. I assure you, there is no exaggeration.”

A short pause and a click as the film began rolling.

The captivated audience watched intently as a massive dark cloud slowly moved to hover over a small island village. Streaks of lightening began to form on the ever-darkening cloud.

All at once the cloud shrank into itself to form a solid black sphere surrounded by the sparking flashes of raw energy. Before anyone could remark upon the strange event, lightening ropes coalesced into a spot on the dark orb. As soon as all the strands met in the center, a beam suddenly shot out and before their shocked eyes, the entire village was vaporized!

Every building, every tree, _every living being_ —gone! The scene was completely lifeless, desolate…

After a few solemn moments, the man in the back cleared his throat. “I’m afraid introductions were lacking. For that I apologize.” A brief pause. “I am Geoffrey Martón.”

At the alarmingly familiar last name, Solo raised an inquiring eyebrow to his superior. Waverly merely sat back, relaxing in his chair.

There was some amusement underneath the long vowels and sonorous voice as Martón continued, “You no doubt have many questions about the name. It is of no importance, but to satisfy your curiosity, yes, Victor is my cousin.

“The matter I bring before you, however, is far more serious than a familial relationship.” Martón stepped into the brighter part of the room for an instant.

That instant was enough. The man’s face had the appearance of raw hamburger—deep red lumps interspersed with whitish blobs of flesh. He wore dark, heavy sunglasses.

Stepping back, he continued his narration. “That was _my_ village—my home for the last twenty-three years.” After that outburst, he was silent for a moment before continuing in a quieter tone. “I was sent south to run things for Thru—, my organization, during the war as a kind of, shall we say, reprimand?”

His entranced audience could see his hands form into fists, even as his voice remained flat.

“I was returning from a trip to the city when the destruction came. Although the beam did not touch me directly, the very soil burned. I could do nothing.” 

 

With a start, Illya shook the water out of his face. Still nighttime—but the full moon peeking through the clouds was bright enough to give the gently rolling waves a surreal, alien effect. Looking out over the vast expanse of water he felt a small rush of emotion. In other circumstances, it would have been beautiful. He stared at the bright moonlight reflected in diamond-bright prisms on the shifting waves for a long time.

The bottle of wine was almost gone, thirst making him uncomfortable, but… _I am always fine._ Wasn’t he?

He’d made a primitive sextant out of floating bits he pulled from the water after the explosion. Now, if some of Napoleon’s luck followed him for a change he just might survive this. 

_I hate the sea..._

 

Napoleon had worked with Thrush agents in many capacities but for some reason working with Martón was decidedly odd. He smiled, remembering other encounters... Some of the best were undoubtedly the stimulating, and treacherous liaisons with the curvaceous Angelique. Notwithstanding, there had been other, less emotional alliances. And, having ‘Thrush’ break into their own computer was delightfully fitting.

As he kept a sharp lookout, he mulled over his uneasiness. Maybe it was just the situation, he didn’t know, but something felt…wrong. _I wonder how Illya’s doing._

_BEEP_

“Solo here.”

“Mr. Solo, your report please.”

“Yes, Sir. The information seems valid so far; Geoff recognized one of the operators as well as the foreman. He’s trying to gain access to the computer.” Hesitating, “We believe the device has been loaded up and is on its way.”

“To where? We _must_ have that information.”

Solo glanced over to look at the Thrush ally. The man gave a short nod and began to shut down his makeshift terminal. “We may have that now, Sir—one moment…”

Solo twisted the tiny dials on his watch until, finally satisfied, he picked up the communicator again.

“Got it. I’m sending the coordinates now.”

“Excellent. Yes… I have them.” There was a faint crackle of paper. “Very well, Mr. Solo, you will rendezvous with Mr. Kuryakin at our Putersfield airstrip. When you have verified that the device is indeed on that ship, you will destroy it. Completely.”

“Yes, Sir. Solo out.”

 

The sun was in his eyes again. Squinting, Illya scanned around him, hoping to see something in the way of rescue. In a few more hours it would once again be too hot and much too bright to stare out at the sea. Already, despite his attempts to protect himself, his skin had turned red and painful.

Hunger was becoming increasingly hard to ignore. Raw fish was was growing in appeal and yesterday he’d even toyed with trying to catch something to eat—he still had his knife and was willing to try anything if sliced thinly enough.

When he spotted the aggressive fins, much too close to his tiny raft though, he quickly changed his mind. Getting eaten by a shark seemed such a gauche way to end his career!

_Really…as if one way were any better than another._ Snorting, he immediately derailed that train of thought. Now was the time to think of survival—not the many ways he could die.

Pulling together his makeshift sextant, he took another reading that showed that he should be within the shipping lanes. _If the thing even works._ Adjusting the knotted red and white striped shirt he’d attached to one of the upright poles, he leaned back, suddenly exhausted from the effort.

Thirst was his most dangerous enemy. Well, that and rolling off the tiny raft if he were to fall unconscious. _Even falling off while asleep could be deadly—what if I couldn’t get back?_

A part of him realized he was rapidly becoming dehydrated. Grimacing, he picked up the wine bottle. This had been a last-minute impulse—something to add to the well-provisioned lifeboat he’d originally planned for his escape. Now, thanks to a couple of nasty guards, he’d abandoned that idea and went with what his partner would have called ‘Plan B.’ Studying the lopsided raft, he frowned. _‘Plan B’ leaves much to be desired._

Turning back to the bottle, he gave it an impatient shake—only a few drops left. Tugging out the cork, he licked at the precious liquid gratefully before glaring at the now empty bottle. Holding it by the neck, he started to throw it away…but something made him hesitate. Sighing, he tucked it away next to his sextant. Glancing up at the sun’s position, he curled up under the sparse protection of the shirt which was fastened as a kind of canopy. And, in case he actually fell asleep, took the precaution of lashing himself to the sorry raft.

 

The coordinates were false! Obviously Thrush was unaware that UNCLE had discovered the small satrap last month. It was also obvious Martón had lied…but why? He stared idly at his enemy as he ran through the past few hours when he suddenly realized something was different about the man. His face was... _askew?_

Immediately Solo ripped off the mask revealing that this wasn’t Geoffrey Martón at all. He was _Victor_ Martón! A small part of him admired the workmanship of the realistic, macabre mask which had to have been hot and uncomfortable, even in the wintery weather. That vanished when he stared into Martón’s cold eyes and oily smirk.

Determined to salvage what he could of the mission, Napoleon Solo kept the Thrush leader under a careful eye while he tried to contact headquarters. The static was fierce— _maybe some height?_ Forcing the devious Martón up the narrow staircase to higher ground, Napoleon hoped he could break through the shielded area.

Every dozen steps or so he tried until _finally_ —a clear signal!

“Open Channel K—top priority, scramble.”

“Yes, Mr. Solo, report.” Waverly’s voice was calm, measured.

“Martón has duped us. Illya could be headed for a trap.”

A brief pause. “I was afraid it might prove to be something like that.”

There was a click followed by a silence long enough to make Solo afraid they’d been cut off, when he heard a loud burst of static.

“Kuryakin here.”

Martón was wriggling his way out of the rope causing Solo to make a desperate grab, but the sly Thrush evaded his grasp and disappeared from view. At that moment the channel cleared.

“Illya, it’s a trap. Martón has fooled us—he _has_ no cousin. This is _Victor_ Martón. Get out of there. Repeat—Martón is Thrush.”

Another burst of static, then a click and Waverly came back on.

“We’ve triangulated your position. Reinforcements will be there momentarily.”

With a sigh, Solo responded wryly, “Thank you, Sir. I'm afraid Martón got away."

"I suppose that couldn't be helped. What of Mr. Kuryakin?"

"The signal dropped—I had him for a moment, but it kept breaking up. I don’t know if Illya caught the warning or not.”

 

Hiding in a tiny closet near the lab, Illya’s communicator sounded. Instantly, he silenced the unit. “Kuryakin here.”

There was quite a bit of static on the frequency before he heard his partner’s voice in a harsh whisper, “—ya, it’s a trap.” More static and then, “Martón is—”

The signal cut off abruptly.

After unsuccessfully trying to regain contact, Illya quickly gathered his equipment and left.

 

Staring out at the wide expanse of ocean, thoughts of his assignment kept marching through his head. He paddled a bit using a lampshade he’d scrounged from the debris.

_That signal had sounded jammed. I hope Napoleon is alright. He has to be alright..._

Cutting off that direction of thought, he looked back out at the sea. Nothing. Nothing except the ocean. Squinting through the early morning mist, he scanned the horizon hoping to see something— _anything_ —besides dark blue waves.

And thinking of waves—these were getting rougher. Dense clouds were forming and it was getting cooler. A storm was definitely brewing. _Oh, joy._ Frowning, he untied the shirt he’d been using as a kind of shelter and put it on. 

 

After managing to sneak out of the Thrush stronghold, Illya Kuryakin sat huddled in the darkness debating his next move. As he ran through his meager options he glanced back in the direction of the satrap and grinned as he thought about the small explosive devices he’d planted before his exit. _Not a complete waste of time, anyway._

As he headed out toward the nearest local office, his mind refused to keep still. Having abandoned his current line of inquiry, his subconscious reviewed the meager lab he’d visited. Something had seemed out of place, but what…?

 

“Still nothing, Sir.” Glancing with no small satisfaction at the disheveled, somewhat frayed appearance of the recaptured Martón, Solo reported to Waverly. Currently housed in the small office, he was grimly leading the interrogation session.

From the monitor, Waverly could easily see the prisoner and his glower showed his displeasure. “I see… Come now, we don’t have the luxury of sitting around knitting. Use that new compound, the one Section VIII developed. The side effects are rather nasty, but we’ll _have_ those answers.”

Solo stared for a moment at the television monitor, his eyes narrowing slightly in speculation. “I see, Sir. I’ll begin preparations.”

“See that you do, Mr. Solo. It’s still classified highest clearance. Report back in thirty minutes…”

Now that Waverly was gone, Solo flipped off the switch before flipping it back on again sharply.

“Luddington. Stachowiak. Report to interrogation room two immediately.”

As he waited for the agents, he looked at Martón, pity in his eyes...

 

That oddity in the lab may have paid off. He reported to headquarters—or at least he _thought_ so—the jamming umbrella seemed to go out quite a distance from the shipyard. Reeling off the coordinates for a small bombing strike for this nest, he managed to sneak on board the large craft.

The device, from what he could glean, being readied for its first target. The ship _had_ to be destroyed—by fire—to ensure the complete eradication of the Thrush machine.

To do that, it was necessary to get some distance away from land. The tests showed one kilometer to be the optimum range, which meant at least two kilometers from shore to be free from the danger of a chain reaction. _Didn’t I already do this once…?_

 

Martón kept his eye on his captor, not sure of what was going to happen. He could see Solo carefully measuring some kind of liquid into what appeared to be a vaporizer. After the machine was plugged in, he donned goggles and mask and flipped the switch. Almost immediately, steam began to rise, the misty vapors insinuating into the small room.

The Thrush agent began edging away from the bars. “This is insane! I thought you were the ‘good guys’ who followed Geneva Convention guidelines.”

“That depends…” Napoleon drawled, somewhat muffled behind his breathing mask, “We want answers and we don’t have the luxury of time.” He glanced at the clock. “This takes about six to eight minutes—depending on the subject. One man held out for ten and a half, but that was an exception. You’ll talk.”

“Really, Mr. Solo, do you expect me to believe this childish ruse?”

“Whether you do or not, doesn’t really matter. You have three more minutes… Say, I never told you the side effects, did I? At first you’ll feel a bit sleepy, maybe even a bit euphoric. _That’s_ when I’ll ask my questions, because, you see, when the gas takes effect, you will answer the questions truthfully or…” Glancing at Martón to make sure he understood, he finished, “or, you’ll get the most horrific, pounding headache of your life. I’m told it makes your average, everyday torture like getting burned by cigars, a relief. It's up to you. ” He glanced up at the clock again. “One more minute…”

Martón had been trying to hold his breath furtively, but finally had to breathe in the vapors. They were similar to a eucalyptus smell, but with something sharp and spicy added. All of a sudden, he began to feel quite ill.

“ _Stop!_ I’ll talk!”

Instantly, Napoleon shut off the machine and switched on the fan. Waiting for the fumes to dissipate, he looked at his prisoner speculatively. “If you don’t, we’ll simply start again. Each time, though, the effects become cumulative.” 

 

Grabbing one of the wine bottles, Illya opened it with a nearby bar opener and began pouring the contents down the sink. Pausing a moment to take a healthy swig before dumping out the rest, he shook out the remaining drops and stuffed in the rolled-up note he'd prepared containing the latitude and longitude of the ship, before replacing the cork.

Tucking another bottle of the excellent vintage under his shirt, he crept out of the dining area and smiled grimly at the situation. _Note in a bottle? How clichéd._

_Now I had better escape before this explosion takes me out along with the ship._

 

“Mr. Waverly, we just received something from Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Yes, Miss, er, Kallio, what is the message?”

“They appear to be coordinates, Sir. We caught the words ‘satrap’ and ‘destroy.’”

“Very well, get me Mr. Solo.”

“Yes, Sir.”

 

The relentless heat of the day coupled with the cooling temperatures at night had him feeling dizzy. It was only a matter of time before he finally succumbed to unconsciousness and eventual death. At least the storm had died down. The seas were a bit calmer, but leaden clouds still threatened his precarious situation. Blearily looking at the empty ocean, he froze as he spotted the menacing fins. _Still around—the choppy waves must have stirred them back up._ Tucking himself into the center of his raft as much as possible, he watched the predators warily. He only had his knife for protection—

_Of course, the empty bottle!_

He protected his face as, with a swift movement, he broke the bottle against the edge of the raft. Now, he had another weapon. Glaring at the closing enemy, he grinned wickedly. _Let them do their worst._ He’d long ago accepted the fact of his probable death and it was his plan to make the enemy pay as dearly as possible. 

 

After finding the scattered debris from the destroyed ship, Solo and his team turned grim as they searched for signs of life. There was nothing.

_Illya is always thorough in the matter of explosions._

Miraculously, the search team retrieved the stoppered wine bottle with Illya’s note just beyond the blast zone, and with this encouragement, one of the helicopters broke off to head for the rendezvous area. But even with the information contained in the note, it was still a huge search area.

_And...did he even make it out alive?_

“What’s that Mr. Solo?” Jon Martin, a local pilot, angled the long-distance helicopter a bit toward his left. Napoleon brought up his field glasses over to get a better look. Scanning around, at first he saw nothing….

Then…there! A signal was coming in now; three degrees left. The chopper lowered, finally hovering over a shaky raft—and Illya!

_What is that stirring up the waters? Sharks!_

Taking careful aim, Napoleon sighted on the fin furthest from the bobbing raft. Blood began to spread through the water and instantly, the other sharks sped toward the wounded animal. Strapping on the harness, he was lowered down.

The wind had picked up making the situation even more treacherous.

“Illya!” Napoleon shouted over the noise, “We’re going to sweep you up in this net!”

Illya squinted, looking confused.

“The net—” Napoleon raised the pile of mesh he was holding. As it dropped near the raft, Illya suddenly nodded and clung to the raft as he waited. The net snagged him and he was swooped up in a sudden air draft. As the winch pulled them upward, Napoleon reaching safety first, climbed inside. Guiding the rope, he pulled one very wet Russian into the safety of the helicopter. As he wrapped the battered agent into warm blankets, Napoleon smiled in relief.

“You found…my note?”

“Well, that and the homing device.”

“What—?”

Napoleon grinned as he reached over to lift up Illya’s medallion. “They were testing a new homing signal incorporated within a chain. The idea was that it could be used by some of our female agents or when using a disguise such as a hippie,” He winked. “So, I thought it’d be a good idea to add it to your chain.”

“Why—?”

“Well, you do seem to go missing a lot.”

Illya glared.

“Actually, the thing is virtually undetectable. The downside is a lack of range.”

“What was that you were trying to tell me about Martón?”

“Oh, that. It turns out there is no cousin.”

Illya slumped back. “So it was all for nothing?”

“No, no, the device was real. Probably not as dangerous as Thrush really wanted, and now, thanks to your pyrotechnics, not dangerous at all.”

“Good…”

As Illya drifted off to sleep, Napoleon leaned back and rested. Glancing at his partner, who had moved in his sleep to lean against his shoulder, he had to fight a serious urge to take him into his arms and hold him tight—keep him safe. Sighing, he settled with just watching him sleep.

 

“Well done, gentlemen.”

Waverly’s praise was unexpected and the men wondered what was going on.

Looking down at some papers, Waverly nodded slowly. “Accounting says you both have unused vacation time. Money being rather tight just now we won’t be able to pay the extra monies so I’m afraid you’ll have to take time off. Now, actually. You needn’t return until after the 7th of next year; that should appease the auditors.”

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other in surprise.

“Ah, it will be rather difficult to get reservations this late,” began Napoleon.

“Yes, that would normally be the case, however, as it happens, I’ve taken the liberty of making reservations for you. There’s a new mountain resort, at the south end of Kentucky, which should suit both of you quite nicely.”

“Uh, thank you, Sir.”

“Miss Rogers has the brochure—be sure to get that, and your tickets, before you leave.” Nodding with satisfaction, he added, “The rest will do you both good—much better than languishing around headquarters.” Turning around so they couldn't see the twinkle in his eye, he added, "Unless you'd rather get your annual physicals out of the way?"

“Oh, no, Sir, that resort sounds fine.”

 

The resort was unexpected in its surprisingly luxurious amenities. The large outdoor pool was heated and had a canopy which held in the heat. The scenery was gorgeous from the natural beauty of the mountains to the girls giggling and flirting in their tiny bikinis. Maybe later in the week they would try out the cross-country ski trails.

But, flirtations aside, it had been a rough affair and both men retired early that night to their suite; two large bedrooms on either side of a large sitting room. A balcony, decorated with evergreen boughs and tiny white lights, showcased the classic view.

The quality mattress was large and comfortable but Napoleon couldn’t fall sleep. He rarely suffered from insomnia, but tonight was proving to be one of those times.

Finally, giving it up as a bad job, he got up and wandered into the sitting room to look for something to read. Maybe he could relax with a drink… Checking out the assorted titles of classics, he heard something coming from Illya’s room and listened intently to see if there was something wrong. From the sounds of it, Illya was having a bad night, too.

On impulse, he entered the bedroom. Waiting a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, he found his partner shifting around in the bed, obviously in pain. “It’s me, Illya.” He used a conversational whisper to reassure the restless agent that he was not being invaded by the enemy.

The movements stopped. “I am fine, Napoleon, go back to bed.”

Instead Napoleon sat down on the edge of the bed. “Sunburn bothering you? I’ll bet you didn’t take any of the pain meds, right?”

“You know me so well,” Illya muttered as he struggled to sit up. Rubbing his eyes he apologized, “Sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t. I was having a bad night myself.”

“Ah.” With that he pulled back the covers to get up.

“What are you doing?”

“I would think that was self-evident—I am getting up.”

“Not on my account I hope.”

Illya giving his partner a look that clearly said he was _not_ , padded out of the room. Heading straight for the small refrigerator, he immediately pulled a bottle from the freezer.

“Good idea, I’ll join you.” Napoleon suited action to words and poured a drink for himself before strolling over to stretch out on the sofa. Glancing up, he watched his partner gracefully sit down on the opposite sofa and was startled by the unexpected wave of emotion that swept over him. The thought, which had been teasing at him for some time now, suddenly became clear. He set down his drink so quickly that a small amount sloshed over on the low table as he sat forward, staring down at hands which trembled slightly.

“Illya. You know that you’re the best partner I’ve ever had, the best agent.” He raised his eyes back up to see how his words would affect his friend. Giving a lopsided smile, in a rush he added softly, “You’re _important_ to me.”

Looking up under his eyelashes, Illya answered warily, “You are important to me as well. Why are you bringing this up in the middle of the night?”

“Never really had the time, I guess. And that last mission was a bit...you know...

"Look, I’m taking the time now. It’s important... _really_ important that you realize that I—”

“—that you love me?” The question was a gentle whisper.

“Yes. You… _know?_ I mean, yes I do!” A look of wonder. "You really _know?_ "

Illya stood up and walked over to stand directly in front of his partner. “I'm a spy. Of course I know, or rather, I’ve suspected for some time. I _will_ , however, need to know one more thing.”

“What would that be, partner mine?”

A large, calloused hand reached up to rest on Napoleon’s shoulder before sliding up to tenderly cup his partner's chin. “Are we going to stop at declarations? Or are we going to act?”

Napoleon stood up instantly and gathering his partner into his arms smiled.

“Act.”


End file.
